The Greatest Novels of Charles Reade. Charles Reade Reade

a buss, poor thing.”

      “Then give it me, for I am she.”

      “Nay, nay, that I'll be sworn y' are not.”

      “Say not so; in very truth I am she. And prithee, sweet mistress, go not from your word, but give me the buss ye promised me, and with a good heart, for oh, my own heart lies heavy: heavy as thine, sweet mistress.”

      The young gentlewoman rose and put her arms round Margaret's neck and kissed her. “I am woe for you,” she sighed. “You are a good soul; you have done me good—a little.” (A gulp came in her throat.) “Come again! come again!”

      Margaret did come again, and talked with her, and gently, but keenly watched what topics interested her, and found there was but one. Then she said to the mayor, “I know your daughter's trouble, and 'tis curable.”

      “What is't? the blood?”

      “Nay.”

      “The stomach?”

      “Nay.”

      “The liver?”

      “Nay.”

      “The foul fiend?”

      “Nay.”

      “What then?”

      “Love.”

      “Love? stuff, impossible! She is but a child; she never stirs abroad unguarded. She never hath from a child.”

      “All the better; then we shall not have far to look for him.”

      “I vow not. I shall but command her to tell me the caitiff's name, that hath by magic arts ensnared her young affections.”

      “Oh, how foolish be the wise!” said Margaret; “what, would ye go and put her on her guard? Nay, let us work by art first; and if that fails, then 'twill still be time for violence and folly.”

      Margaret then with some difficulty prevailed on the mayor to take advantage of its being Saturday, and pay all his people their salaries in his daughter's presence and hers.

      It was done: some fifteen people entered the room, and received their pay with a kind word from their employer. Then Margaret, who had sat close to the patient all the time, rose and went out. The mayor followed her.

      “Sir, how call you yon black-haired lad?”

      “That is Ulrich, my clerk.”

      “Well then, 'tis he.”

      “Now Heaven forbid a lad I took out of the streets.”

      “Well, but your worship is an understanding man. You took him not up without some merit of his?”

      “Merit? not a jot! I liked the looks of the brat, that was all.”

      “Was that no merit? He pleased the father's eye. And now who had pleased the daughter's. That has oft been seen since Adam.”

      “How know ye 'tis he?”

      “I held her hand, and with my finger did lightly touch her wrist; and when the others came and went, 'twas as if dogs and cats had fared in and out. But at this Ulrich's coming her pulse did leap, and her eye shine; and when he went, she did sink back and sigh; and 'twas to be seen the sun had gone out of the room for her. Nay, burgomaster, look not on me so scared: no witch or magician I, but a poor girl that hath been docile, and so bettered herself by a great neglected leech's art and learning. I tell ye all this hath been done before, thousands of years ere we were born. Now bide thou there till I come to thee, and prithee, prithee, spoil not good work wi' meddling.” She then went back and asked her patient for a lock of her hair.

      “Take it,” said she, more listlessly than ever.

      “Why, 'tis a lass of marble. How long do you count to be like that, mistress?”

      “Till I am in my grave, sweet Peggy.”

      “Who knows? maybe in ten minutes you will be altogether as hot.”

      She ran into the shop, but speedily returned to the mayor and said, “Good news! He fancies her and more than a little. Now how is't to be? Will you marry your child, or bury her, for there is no third way, for shame and love they do rend her virgin heart to death.”

      The dignitary decided for the more cheerful rite, but not without a struggle; and with its marks on his face he accompanied Margaret to his daughter. But as men are seldom in a hurry to drink their wormwood, he stood silent. So Doctor Margaret said cheerfully, “Mistress, your lock is gone; I have sold it.”

      “And who was so mad as to buy such a thing?” inquired the young lady scornfully.

      “Oh, a black-haired laddie wi' white teeth. They call him Ulrich.”

      The pale face reddened directly, brow and all.

      “Says he, 'Oh, sweet mistress, give it me.' I had told them all whose 'twas. 'Nay,' said I, 'selling is my livelihood, not giving.' So he offered me this, he offered me that, but nought less would I take than his next quarter's wages.

      “Cruel,” murmured the girl, scarce audibly.

      “Why, you are in one tale with your father. Says he to me when I told him, 'Oh, an he loves her hair so well, 'tis odd but he loves the rest of her. Well,' quoth he, ''tis an honest lad, and a shall have her, gien she will but leave her sulks and consent.' So, what say ye, mistress, will you be married to Ulrich, or buried i' the kirkyard?”

      “Father! father!”

      “'Tis so, girl, speak thy mind.”

      “I will obey my father—in all things,” stammered the poor girl, trying hard to maintain the advantageous position in which Margaret had placed her. But nature, and the joy and surprise, were too strong even for a virgin's bashful cunning. She cast an eloquent look on them both, and sank at her father's knees, and begged his pardon, with many sobs for having doubted his tenderness.

      He raised her in his arms, and took her, radiant through her tears with joy, and returning life, and filial love, to his breast; and the pair passed a truly sacred moment, and the dignitary was as happy as he thought to be miserable; so hard is it for mortals to foresee. And they looked round for Margaret, but she had stolen away softly.

      The young girl searched the house for her.

      “Where is she hid? Where on earth is she?”

      Where was she? why, in her own house, dressing meat for her two old children, and crying bitterly the while at the living picture of happiness she had just created.

      “Well-a-day, the odds between her lot and mine; well-a-day!”

      Next time she met the dignitary he hemm'd and hawed, and remarked what a pity it was the law forbade him to pay her who had cured his daughter. “However, when all is done, 'twas not art, 'twas but woman's wit.”

      “Nought but that, burgomaster,” said Margaret bitterly. “Pay the men of art for not curing her: all the guerdon I seek, that cured her, is this: go not and give your foul linen away from me by way of thanks.”

      “Why should I?” inquired he.

      “Marry, because there be fools about ye will tell ye she that hath wit to cure dark diseases, cannot have wit to take dirt out o' rags; so pledge me your faith.”

      The dignitary promised pompously, and felt all the patron.

      Something must be done to fill “To-morrow's” box. She hawked her initial letters and her illuminated vellums all about the town. Printing had by this time dealt caligraphy in black and white a terrible blow in Holland and Germany. But some copies of the printed books were usually illuminated and fettered. The printers offered Margaret prices for work in these two kinds.

      “I'll think on't,” said she.

      She took down her diurnal book, and calculated that the price of an hour's work on those arts would